


Renewal

by Sigridhr



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Darcy is the Monster, Everyone Has Issues, F/F, Grief, a re-write of A Monster Calls, but mostly valkyrie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27088510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigridhr/pseuds/Sigridhr
Summary: There is no greater lie than the ones we tell ourselves. Brunnhilde only wishes she hadn't needed to run into a monster to find out.A re-write of A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness
Relationships: Brunnhilde | Valkyrie & Darcy Lewis
Comments: 11
Kudos: 16
Collections: The Monster Mash





	Renewal

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-write of A Monster Calls and will spoil the storyline of the book if you have not read it, but will not match the excellence of the original which I highly recommend reading. Written for the Darcylvania challenge on the Darcyverse Discord, for the literary monsters week. 
> 
> Beta'd graciously, wonderfully and extremely helpfully by amidtheflowers, who always inspires me to be better. 
> 
> PS yes I know barley is harvested in July but also I went with autumn for atmospheric reasons and I don't care. You can still @ me if you want to give me barley facts, I guess. I also headcanon Carol as living with the Aesir because a) space buds and b) New Asgard has some serious lesbian vibes and I think that suits her so she's here.

It was past midnight, when Brunnhilde heard her for the first time. She pulled the curtain back, peering out the window, her fingers pale and cold on the wood sill, before she realised what had woken her. It was autumn, and the crisp leaves rustled loudly in the pale moonlight, but beneath that she heard her own name: _Brunnhilde_.

There were few lights on in New Asgard, nestled in its little coastal refuge, and she could see the village stretching out down the hill from her window. Up the hill was the great yew tree, bent, its thin gnarled branches like long fingers stretching into the sky. _Brunnhilde_. 

Quite like fingers, actually. She saw them move, her own nails digging into the wooden sill, as the yew began to move. Its bark seemed to come alive, sliding like skin as its branches wound themselves into first one thick arm, then another, its fist closing tight against the silver light of the moon. It lifted first one leg, roots gathering tendril-like to form calves, ankles and feet, then the next. And then it turned, looking straight at her: _Brunnhilde_. 

In an instant it was right in front of her window, crouched down so all she can see is the faint amber glow of its eyes, its face nearly filling her open window. It breathed out slowly, smelling of moss and damp earth, and one, powerful hand clenched tightly around her window frame, leaving dents in the pale plaster of her wall. 

Brunnhilde came unfrozen, reaching blindly for the sword that is propped up beside her bed. 

The creature laughed, and the cottage shook hard enough that she had to catch herself on the bedpost. _Do you truly believe that would work?_ The monster’s voice was loud, echoing in both her ears. Its voice – her voice – was low, but unmistakably female. 

“I’ve fought larger creatures than you,” said Brunnhilde, “and won.” 

The monster leant forward, her eyes darkening as she roared, shaking the cottage hard enough that the frame cracked in the window and the roof began to crumble. Brunnhilde could make out a row of knotted teeth in her wide, dark mouth, and could see the moss that grew across her bark-like skin. Her fists pounded the wall, sending splinters of mortar raining towards Brunnhilde, and at last a great hand came reaching through the window, its fingers spread wide. 

“Do it then,” she said, and the monster stopped. 

_I could_. 

“I am not afraid,” said Brunnhilde. 

_Not of me,_ said the monster. _But you are afraid. Or you would not have awoken me._ The monster receded from the window, standing upright in front of Brunnhilde’s cottage. She was tall - at least three times as tall as her roof, and Brunnhilde could just barely make out her eyes glowing faintly, looking down directly at her. 

“I didn’t wake you,” said Brunnhilde. “I don’t even know what you are. But I am not afraid.” 

The monster stood still, the wind rustling faintly through the needles on her branches. 

_Not yet, perhaps._

Then, the monster brought both her enormous hands down at once, and the world went black. 

…

The sun was in her face when Brunnhilde woke again, and the cottage was back in one piece. Asgardians were no strangers to dreams, but this was beyond the normal sort that Brunnhilde had become accustomed to – but then Midgard seemed to have a strange effect on them all, and it hadn’t exactly been easy going. 

Still, she couldn’t shake the odd feeling the dream had left. The yew tree stood up on the hill in its usual place again, lit by the early morning sun and drenched in fog. Brunnhilde clutched a mug of tea between her hands to warm them, contemplating another day of shepherding ahead. New Asgard required a level of upkeep they were all unaccustomed to, having lived so long with the tremendous technological advantages Asgard had offered them. But now - those who had once been conquerors, who once walked in gilded halls and feasted like kings, were now reduced to yarn spinning, fishing, and animal husbandry to trade for what they couldn’t produce themselves. 

No wonder Thor had turned his back on them all. 

She put the cup down in the sink, pouring out the dregs of her tea, and zipped her vest. It was time to get to work. 

It was an odd thing to be Queen of Asgard. It felt like a technicality, or a sick joke. She’d served Asgard in its prime, now her days were filled with questions about selling enough wool for fuel for the generators. But people – her people – bowed and asked for her advice and her blessing. The desperate, grasping hands of what was left of Asgard reached to her for reassurance she couldn’t provide, and she lied time and time again: Asgard is not a place, it’s a people. She envied Heimdall, he seemed to have believed it. 

In truth she preferred the sheep. They never asked for anything. 

…

**The first story**

She found herself curled up in the living room, her feet tucked under her with a book in her lap, watching the clock. Her skin itched with anticipation. 

She slammed the book shut, placing it down on an end table. She felt a shiver run down her spine. 

The living room grew darker all at once as a great, hulking shape appeared at the window, blocking the light of the stars and the full moon. She heard the creaking of old wood as the window opened, and the monster peered inside. 

“You’re back,” said Brunnhilde flatly. 

_You called me,_ said the monster, then she stood up, stepping away from the window. 

Brunnhilde took the invitation, wrapping a throw blanket around her shoulders and stepping outside. The monster towered over her, and she could barely make our two faint glowing eyes looking down impassively at her. 

“What are you?” she asked.

 _I have held many names,_ said the monster, seeming to grow in size as she spoke. _Some have called upon me as the woman of the green, as vengeance and truth, as the Earth herself._

“Anything more catchy than “woman of the green”?” 

The monster seemed to scowl, letting out a low huff of displeasure. _You may call me Darcy_. 

Brunnhilde nodded, summoning as much authority as she could muster, feeling cold, tired and more than a little mad, and said, “And what do you want?” 

_I will tell you three stories_ , Darcy said, _and you will tell me one_. 

“I have absolutely no interest in swapping stories,” said Brunnhilde, turning on her heel and preparing to walk back into the house. Tendril-like fingers caught her around the waist, cutting off her breathing for just a moment as she was lifted up in the air, turned around, and dropped back onto the ground. 

_I will tell you the first story tonight,_ said Darcy as if there had been no interruption. _It begins like this…_

_Once, when I was younger and my roots were not so deep, these lands were home to many farmers who grew what little they could in the cold earth. Then one day, a group of soldiers came along with a governor to say they had become a province of a great empire._

Brunnhilde snorted loudly. 

Darcy ignored her. _The governor was a proud man, who stood very straight and very tall and had a love of numbers and organisation that few could match. He set about arranging taxes for the empire: everyone in the village had to turn over a tenth of their harvest to send back to the capital._

“You’re a monster who has come to tell me stories about taxation?” Brunnhilde asked incredulously. 

_I have not finished._ Darcy shifted, and Brunnhilde could hear the loud, creaking power in her body as she did, suddenly aware of just how outmatched she truly was. _A tenth was more than they could pay, and some of the villagers began to go hungry for the land here does not grow very much. They begged and pleaded for a little grace, but the governor refused, insisting on one tenth, no more, no less._

_One year there was a late frost, and nearly all the harvest was lost. Giving ten percent of what was left would leave too little to keep the village alive, and many families faced starvation. So one of the men of the village came to me. He stood upon my roots, pressed his hands into my bark and begged me for my help. He wanted me to kill the governor._

"And you killed him." 

Brunnhilde shifted, wrapping the throw blanket over her shoulders. Darcy leant down low, crouching on all fours like a cat until her enormous face was level with Brunnhilde and said, _No_. 

“You let them starve?” Brunnhilde shouted. “After all that? The point is you left them starve?” 

Darcy’s hand snatched Brunnhilde into the air, clenching tight enough that she couldn’t breathe, as she was spun around wildly. 

_Is that the point?_ Darcy snarled. Brunnhilde gasped, struggling against the hand that held her, her fingernails stripping bits of bark off leaving tiny scratches in their wake. 

She was released, falling to the ground with a hard thump, enough to knock what little breath she had left out of her. 

_The governor had children of his own and earned a pittance to work in a province so far from the empire. If he failed to turn in his taxes he would be punished, and he was already reprimanded for not delivering enough although he had taken one tenth, no more, no less. He had committed no crime, though his actions may have caused some to starve. He believed in the Empire: it had brought roads and trade to the village that had not existed before. The young were taught to write for the first time. And he believed the price of ten percent was worth it. So, I carried him and his family to another province, where he became governor again._

“And this is justice to you?” Brunnhilde gasped bitterly. 

_Justice?_ asked Darcy. _I was called. I answered._

“What about the village then?”

 _Some starved anyway, though the governor had gone. Eventually the governor was replaced by another, who took one tenth again. And finally, the man who had called upon me became the governor himself._

“So what was the point? Nothing changed, people still died. What was the point of this story?”

_Must stories have a point?_

Brunnhilde barely refrained from kicking Darcy in frustration. 

“So that’s it then? People died anyway, the governor was a good person even though he starved people? Why didn’t you do anything useful? Why not get rid of the empire to stop the taxes altogether?” 

_I did not try to get rid of the empire because no one ever asked._

Brunnhilde shivered again. Something in the Earth seemed to shift as Darcy turned, looking out up the hill towards the full moon. The hill looked like it was undulating faintly. 

“I’m asking,” she said firmly. 

The ripple under the hill seemed to be getting closer. It was more than just the grass moving in the wind, something slithered beneath the earth down towards her. 

_Are you?_ Darcy sounded amused. _And what empire do you wish to get rid of, Queen of Asgard?_

Then the earth opened up like a great, black mouth and swallowed her whole. 

_It is not yet time for your story_. 

…

Helga had been from one of Asgard’s noble families, and had been handmaiden to Queen Frigga when she was alive. Brunnhilde privately sympathised with the obvious war going on inside Helga who both thought Brunnhilde should not be Queen and that Helga should be her handmaiden anyway. But there was no need for handmaidens here - and they had really been just a formality in Asgard anyway. Hands were needed instead to till the earth rather than lace dresses. 

“You know you can’t kill her with your brain, right?” Carol leant casually up against the fence next to Brunnhilde, staring at Helga. 

Brunnhilde tried to smile in response, but it felt half-hearted at best. She could feel Helga looking back at her somewhat balefully, as she wound her way through the field, carefully pulling weeds and checking for evidence of pests. 

“I don’t want her dead,” Brunnhilde said flatly. 

“Hmm,” Carol replied, tying her plaid shirt around her waist tightly. “Help me move the sheep? They could do with heading out over the hill today.” 

It was muddy, and uncommonly wet for this time of year. Her toes were a little chilled as the mud squelched over the top of her boots. 

“So,” Carol said casually as they crossed the field together, “you wanna talk about it?” 

“Talk about what?” 

“Whatever it is that’s got you so up in your own head lately.” Carol unlocked the gate, attaching it to the fence to keep it open. “Anything I can help with? Is Helga being a bitch?” 

“Helga misses the life she used to have and wants to act like nothing has changed,” replied Brunnhilde. “I envy her.” 

Carol eyed her contemplatively. “I understand, I think.” She sighed. “You know, a part of me wanted to go back to the Kree even after I’d found out? I wanted to pretend it never happened and just go back to my life the way it was.” 

“It’s harder to pretend when that life no longer exists,” Brunnhilde said flatly, ushering the first of the flock through the gate. 

Carol looked a little contrite. “You’re right, I’m sorry.” 

Brunnhilde swallowed and looked away, biting back any further response. One thing Carol was always good at was companionable silence. 

…

**The second story**

The tall stalks of barley brushed against her arms softly. The breeze made them ripple like waves around her, until she felt like a boat alone on an ocean. By next week her arms would ache from the work of gathering them all up and husking them, but for now she simply let them wash over her. 

She twisted one between her fingers, pinching it tightly, and pulled until the head came off in her hand, some of the grain falling to the ground. 

_Brunnhilde_.

“You’re late,” she said, not looking up. “It’s been weeks.” 

_I never said otherwise,_ replied Darcy. Her great legs, nearly the size of two tree trunks on their own, were standing in the middle of the field, crushing dark circles of barley into the earth, wasting valuable grain. But when had Brunnhilde begun to think of grain as valuable?

“Well, go away then,” she said. “Not today. I’m not in the mood.”

Darcy sounded amused. _Is what you say always so incongruent with what you feel?_

Brunnhilde whirled around, but Darcy cut her off, _It is time for the second story._

“Bugger your second –” Darcy leant forward, her face coming alarmingly close alarmingly fast, until it was all Brunnhilde could see. She was drowning in the scent of wet wood and moss, like a forest floor, and Darcy’s great, black mouth opened in a snarl. 

_Silence_. 

After a moment, Darcy sat back. _The second story is about a storm so great it threatened to uproot even me. It came from the sea, and swept across this land with a fury that shattered wood, bone and threw great waves up over the cliffs to drown the earth. The village in the cove saw the storm coming, and nearly all tried to flee. There was one man who lived there with his wife and two daughters and he refused to go._

_His wife and daughters begged him to leave with them as the storm drew closer and closer but he refused. He would not leave the house he was born in, nor the things he owned, to be destroyed by the wind and the waves. At last, his wife and daughters left without him._

“Let me guess,” said Brunnhilde sarcastically, “he dies.” 

_No,_ said Darcy, _he lived. The storm spared his house. In the morning his house was virtually untouched, while nearly all the others were damaged, some beyond repair. Most of the village lost their homes, and many their lives. He walked up the hill to find his family and tell them the good news, only to find their bodies along the way._

“They died?” Brunnhilde asked flatly. “That’s it? They died? Is this story supposed to punish me in some way?”

 _Punish you?_ Darcy asked, then laughed. _No, not punish. What an odd question._

“Then what?” Brunnhilde asked. “What is the point?”

 _I have not yet finished_ , said Darcy. _The man, devastated, came to me begging for help. His family had died, but his home had been spared. In the end, it was not worth it to him, though he had been adamant about not leaving._

“What did you do?”

_I returned with him to the village, and I destroyed his house._

Brunnhilde felt all the breath leave her lungs at once. “You what?” 

_Oh, yes_ , said Darcy. _I ripped the house apart piece by piece._

Brunnhilde felt like she’d been hit by something. Darcy was looking down at her, somehow _knowing_ in a way that felt uncomfortable in the midst of something so monstrous. “Why?” she asked. 

_He asked for my help_. 

“And that was your help? Destroying everything he had left?” she asked incredulously. 

Darcy’s piercing amber eyes looked down at her. _Would you not have done the same?_ She stood, swiping down at the earth with one, massive hand. _I first tore the roof off, and it broke with a crack. Then I pulled apart the chimney in great chunks._

Brunnhilde suddenly felt like she could see the house, its roof torn off, and hear the clattering of bricks all around her. Darcy bent low behind her, her voice whispering in Brunnhilde’s ear. _Wouldn’t you have done the same?_

She felt a tremendous strength in her limbs and through her feet. Like she were rooted into the earth itself, moving through her like water crashing against the rocks and slowly but surely eroding them away. She heard the man, weeping over his lost family, begging to go back and to have left with them. 

And she tore into the house. She ripped the windows from their panes and smashed them. Tore apart the walls brick by brick and shredded what she found inside. She tore timbre beams from the walls and the ceilings, and dug the foundations out of the ground and threw them aside, leaving nothing but a gaping hole in the ground behind. 

She could hear Darcy laugh in the distance, and then the feeling faded. 

Her hands were covered in dirt, caked under her nails, and she sat on her knees in the middle of a heap of ripped up crops. She’d shredded the field, tearing up the grain that was meant to buy their winter heating. Stalks, bent and broken, littered the ground all around. 

“Shit, shit, shit shit shit –” 

She looked up at the sound of footsteps. Helga stood at the edge of the field, her feet bare and in her white nightdress. She looked like a ghost, staring in horror down at what Brunnhilde had done. 

Helga moved first, spinning on her heel and returning to her home. Brunnhilde could hear the door slam from where she sat. 

…

Carol was making breakfast by the time Brunnhilde actually crawled out of bed. She could tell by the sun it was a lot later than she was used to. The temptation to roll over and go back to sleep lost to the smell of bacon, and reluctantly, she stumbled into the kitchen. 

“This isn’t your house,” she said to Carol. 

“I drew the short straw,” Carol replied, dropping bacon onto a plate with some eggs and toast. “Someone had to check on you.” 

The plate made a heavy thunk when it hit the table. 

“You should eat,” said Carol. 

Brunnhilde sat, but pushed the plate away instead. “Is there coffee?”

“I can make some,” said Carol. 

“Great, put some bourbon in it.”

Carol paused, her arm outstretched halfway towards the kettle.

Brunnhilde sighed. “Are you here to tell me I’ve got two hours to pack my bags and get out of New Asgard?” 

Carol looked surprised. “No, I don’t think anyone wants that. Except maybe you, apparently.” She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Look, I’m not the right person to talk to about this stuff, but in my experience a load of the people out there are. I can’t imagine what you’re going through having lost –”

Brunnhilde stood up, her chair scraping across the floor. 

“Look, you have to talk to someone. Everyone else does. You’re not going through this alone but you can’t keep pretending everything is fine.” 

“I do talk to someone,” she said, though privately she knew half-mad conversations with an imaginary monster was not exactly what Carol had meant. 

“Everyone understands,” Carol said. “It’s not like you’re the first here to –”

But Brunnhilde was already out the door before she could hear anymore about everyone understanding. 

…

**The third story**

She could hear Helga’s footsteps crunching through the grass behind her before she arrived. 

“You know, I never thought it would be you,” she said. “With all your ‘Asgard is not a place, it’s a people’ talk. You act like you don’t miss it at all.” 

“I don’t,” said Brunnhilde, looking steadily and pointedly forwards. 

Helga snorted. “People who don’t miss it don’t get that angry. No one really hates barley that much.” 

A thousand furious replies died on Brunnhilde’s tongue as she remembered the way Helga had looked, pale and furious, when she’d seen the field last night. After all, it was Helga who had led most of the work, despite her obvious displeasure with the task. 

“I’m glad, in a way,” she said. “Though I wish it hadn’t been my field you chose. I’m tired of pretending like we can just go on.” 

_And here is the third story_ said Darcy’s voice in her ear. _And it is short_. 

Brunnhilde swallowed. 

_Once there was a man who held secrets he was afraid of sharing. They weighed him down, until he was too afraid to say anything at all, just in case someone should hear something that would let them see the secrets he kept, and the words he did not say._

“Asgard is gone,” said Brunnhilde flatly. “There is no going back, and the only option is to go on. You accept that or you don’t.” 

_Until fewer and fewer people ever spoke to him. At least, he could tell his secrets. He screamed them to the silence._

Helga’s face contorted in a snarl. “Stop lying,” she said, shakily. “Just stop.” 

_And his secret was this: though he was tired and afraid of speaking, not speaking scared him more. And the only thing worse than being asked how he was, was to not be asked at all._

Brunnhilde laughed. “What do you want me to say? That it’s fine? That we’ll become another glorious Empire here? I’m not Thor, I am not Odin and this is not Asgard, and you don’t know what I feel about it at all.” 

Helga slapped her. “And I don’t want to,” she said. 

_And so he died alone._

… 

**The final story**

She was slightly out of breath by the time she made it to the top of the hill, but that didn’t stop her from running up to the yew and giving it a swift and hard kick. 

“Come out,” she shouted. “If you’re going to ruin my life the least you can do is come out.”

 _Ruin it?_ Darcy asked, unfurling and rising to her full, monstrous height, _no. I am here to save it._

“You have a funny way of showing it,” said Brunnhilde. 

_As do you,_ said Darcy. _And now it is time for the truth. We come at last to the final story._

“I don’t understand what you want from me,” said Brunnhilde. “I don’t understand any of this.” 

New Asgard went about its day below them, the sheep moving through the green and a group of Aesir worked to gather and recover what they could of the ruined barley. But beyond that, suddenly it seemed to Brunnhilde like she could see the rainbow bridge again, stretching out across the water and towards the Bifrost. 

She shut her eyes forcefully, suddenly desperately wanting a drink. She felt the heat of flames on her face, and opened her eyes to see Asgard burning in front of her. 

“No,” she said. “Not again. Stop it.”

 _It isn’t up to me,_ said Darcy. _This is your call. This is what I hear._

“I don’t want this,” said Brunnhilde softly. “I don’t want to see this again.” 

_But this isn’t all,_ said Darcy. _This isn’t where you truly live, or what you dream about at night._

“Stop,” said Brunnhilde.

_Tell me the story._

There she was again, in the same loop, the same thing she saw every time she thought of Asgard. Not even the image of Asgard burning could wipe it from her, instead what she saw was _her_ falling before Hela again, blood matted in her hair, their sisters strewn about them…

 _Tell me the story,_ said Darcy again. _Your lover died, not for Asgard but betrayed by her and you left –_

“I left, I was never going back,” said Brunnhilde. “I never wanted to go back.”

 _But you did_ , said Darcy, and Brunnhilde could smell the smoke of Asgard once again. She could hear the sounds of her great towers being ripped apart, as the survivors screamed around her, and Ragnarok came at last. _You watched it burn_.

“I tried to stop it,” she said. “I fought.” 

_You did_ , said Darcy. _And you lived, and now you rule what is left._

“I won’t say it,” she said again, the smell of smoke now overwhelming and heavy as she tried to breathe. 

_You must_ , said Darcy. _This is why you have called me. Tell me your story._

“I won’t.” Asgard fell, and her with it, falling endlessly into a great gaping beyond before landing, splattered, on a battlefield next to _her_ , staring into her beautiful but vacant eyes. 

_This is Asgard to you,_ said Darcy. _And you never wanted to come back._

In the distance, Hela laughed, long and cold. 

“And they deserved it,” said Brunnhilde, then she screamed, “they deserved it. They deserved what they got for what they had done.” 

Darcy’s hands enveloped her, surrounding her with warmth, and lay her down on the grass, looking wide-eyed up into the blue sky and panting. She closed her eyes, making fists in the grass and felt the cool of the earth against her skin. 

“They didn’t really,” she said. “None of them deserved this.” 

_Both can be true,_ said Darcy. _The story is as you have told it._

“It isn’t fair,” said Brunnhilde. “They deserve someone else. Someone who doesn’t secretly think their families deserved to die. Someone who doesn’t hate everything they love that was lost.” 

_Perhaps_ , said Darcy. _Perhaps not. But you have been chosen._

Brunnhilde snorted. “And what have I done?” 

_Enough_ , said Darcy, slowly folding herself back into a tree, her branches stretching out to cover Brunnhilde. 

She reached up, touching the yew’s bark and feeling something like a heartbeat, strong and steady beneath. 

“Don’t go,” she said. 

_I will remain with you, until the end._

She pressed herself up against the bark, leaning into the wood. “It doesn’t feel like enough,” she said softly. “What if I make it worse?” 

_You would, if you did nothing at all._ The branches above her head cracked and groaned. _Go home_.

So she did. Brunnhilde turned, looking down over the valley below, and began the long walk down. Her cottage door creaked as she opened it, throwing her jacket aside, heading to the kitchen. Her hands were still shaking, moving almost on autopilot.

She nearly tripped over it. Growing, impossibly, out of the floor of her kitchen, was a yew sapling. She sat down on the floor, cradling its small branches in her hands. 

And, for the first time since she’d arrived, she began to feel as though this might truly be home.


End file.
